


Aw, Honey Honey

by cathedraltunes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Clown, Stream of Consciousness, sex comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22531807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedraltunes/pseuds/cathedraltunes
Summary: Eddie gets a second chance at life, a divorce, a roommate/boyfriend ("a boymate, if you will" --Richie Tozier), and finally, a blowjob.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 653





	Aw, Honey Honey

Oral sex didn't feature in the Kaspbrak marriage, at least not the kind of oral Eddie would have received.

("A blowjob, Eddie," said Richie. "It's called a blowjob. Use your words, you adorable time-lost Puritan." 

"Fuck off and die," Eddie said. 

Richie just winked and mimed punching himself in the face with a pipe. So, obviously Richie was a virgin. "Not true! I have had so much meaningless sex," Richie protested. "I have sucked _one hundred dicks_ and been disappointed by every single one."

For a man so closeted he'd almost thrown up when a demon clown from outer space showed him a literal closet, Richie sure liked to run his mouth about having wild, casual sex with anonymous men, a gag bordering on outright homophobia and tempered only by Richie's actual homosexuality. Eddie figured this was typical Richie Tozier: ha ha, you can't call me queer if I call me queer first!)

He had told Myra he thought it degrading to women and Myra had agreed, and after the handful of times he went down on Myra early in their marriage she admitted she didn't enjoy that either. "I don't like not seeing your face," she said shyly. So that was another nail in Eddie's heel that he had to keep walking on now that they were divorced.

"Dude, didn't she convince you that you had, like, bird allergies?" Richie had looked askance at him that night Eddie discovered she'd blocked him on Facebook. "Not to rain on your guilt parade but I'm pretty sure you guys were mutually shitty for each other."

"Why do I even care?" Eddie groaned, shoving his laptop toward the foot of the bed. "Why do I even want to look at her fucking Facebook?"

Richie had wiggled closer with devil glee and wrapped his big arms around Eddie and nuzzled his cheek into Eddie's hair even as Eddie tried to elbow him hard in the gut.

"Oh, well, I know. It's because you're a little psychotic weasel. You totally Facebook stalk everyone who ever cut you off. The barista that called you Emily. Derek from home office. _Oof._ What the _fuck_ , are your elbows made out of _adamantium_? Jesus. You just broke my entire rib cage."

"I've never Facebook stalked anyone in my entire life," Eddie snapped, "so what if I want to check up on the woman I was married to for ten years? I'm not a fucking asshole!"

"You're definitely an asshole." Richie held him tighter to minimize flailing damage. "And you're way too nice. Stop beating yourself up."

Eddie receded grumbling into Richie's arms. Amusement thrummed in Richie's chest. He drew his too big fingers across Eddie's shoulder, soothing and, also, deeply aggravating. Eddie felt like a cat stroked in reverse by a besotted five year old.

"I'm not nice."

"You're the nicest. You're so nice," said Richie. "You're like a bear claw."

"Stop comparing me to pastries. I hate it when you call me honey."

"No, it makes sense. Like, you're shaped like bear claws, ahhhhrrrrgh, but then when you bite down--" And how Richie thought he could call Eddie a psycho when Richie was the one who leaned over and just lightly thunked his open mouth and teeth on the top of Eddie's head, Eddie didn't fucking know. "Sweet paste. Sweet, _sticky_ paste."

Eddie said, "I will choke you to death," and Richie, giggling, had wrapped his grotesquely long limbs around Eddie and went on pretending to tear chunks out of him. So Eddie was dating a lunatic virgin.

  
  


  
  


After the shitshow of Derry, Maine: Guess Who's Back, Back Again, Pennywise's Back, Tell A Friend ("I worked on that joke for two whole seconds," Richie had said in the groupchat, "the least any of you assholes could do is post a smiley face"), Eddie had a new perspective on several distinct aspects of his life. First, he didn't love his wife and he'd never loved her and he was King Dickhead of the Dickheads. Second, he was bisexual; it wasn't a phase; JJ from sophomore year was not an outlier. Third, he was regrettably in love or at least uncontrollable animal lust with Richie "Unwashed Orangutan-Human Hybrid" Tozier. Fourth, he didn't like blowjobs because an alien clown had asked to blow his dick for free when he was thirteen, so, like, why don't you take a fucking seat, Pennywise, you _freak_.

Somewhere in the drug haze of Derry Memorial Hospital, after the surgeons had reconstructed his chest wall but before the lung infection, Eddie confessed all these things to Richie. He liked to think he would have confessed them even without the codeine and the clown trauma. "You're braver than you think, Eddie." So he had looked at Richie, pressed up against Eddie's cot like he thought he could fit his gangly body in the single bed next to Eddie if only the nurses would look the other way, and Eddie had told Richie he loved him and then made a lazy Chris Hansen joke.

The joke was supposed to distract Richie's goldfish brain from the world-shaking epiphanies Eddie had just vomited but instead Richie had gone pale and blurted out, "I'm gay, and I'd suck your dick." Then his eyes crossed behind his cracked glasses and he mouthed what the fuck? and sitting upright, while Eddie was still trying to process this, he said, "And I love you."

The nurse coming in to the room had stopped at Richie's dick-sucking declaration, visibly re-calibrated her face, and continued in.

So, a lunatic dick-sucking virgin who was as bad at love confessions as Eddie, something that _had_ made him feel better about the two chest surgeries in his near future.

  
  


  
  


He still didn't like to think about oral sex. And that was fine; it wasn't like he and Richie just jumped right into bed with each other. Eddie had the surgeries, the interminable recovery period, then the divorce during the recovery period which was just a complete emotional and logistical nightmare. Myra wanted to take care of him but Eddie just wanted to cleanly cut their marriage in two and then drive a silver stake through each half, and Myra thought not unfairly that Eddie had finally had the nervous breakdown everyone had known was coming, and Eddie thought that if Myra tried to reason with him one more time about the responsible and thoughtful thing to do in his condition then Eddie really was going to have that nervous breakdown and if Eddie had that nervous breakdown he was going to take the entire _county_ down with him. 

And yes, okay, fine. He wanted to touch Richie. Every day he looked up and found Richie hovering just outside the hospital room door with a syrup-loaded, whipped cream-topped sugar bomb from Starbucks in one hand and a Star Wars MadLibs in the other hand, Eddie felt like the skin of his palms would itch right off just from the looking and the seeing and the wanting. Richie always stopped right there at the threshold and looked in on Eddie with some puree blend of wonder and relief and surprise on his hairy block-shaped face, just to see that Eddie was there in the hospital bed sitting up and pretending not to be watching Good Morning, America.

No one had ever looked at Eddie like that. Like he was something both precious and dangerous. Like something to be worshipped. It made Eddie want to snap at Richie and claw ribbons off his arms and crack his new glasses in half. It made Eddie want to eat Richie. Looking at Richie looking at Eddie, he'd felt like the witch from Hansel & Gretel. Candy and gingerbread and the coarse hair on Richie's forearms, the casual muscular swell underneath.

Then there was his job. He was senior enough he'd access to a comprehensive medical leave plan, and he was valuable enough that even had the company tried to screw him, he could easily set up independently. All he needed to do was to keep his certificates up to date. Almost dying in Derry's sewage had granted Eddie a shocking amount of perspective on his worth. If he wanted, he _could_ work as an independent contractor and he could do so for larger, international businesses. Did he really need to add that to his list of responsibilities? He could do it, though. If he wanted to. He thought that maybe he did want to.

Then there was the house. Gaping chest wound or no gaping chest wound the New York courts saw that Eddie had vacated the residence and therefore Myra had greater claim to it. "So, what, you're homeless?" Richie demanded incredulously. 

"You think I can't find an apartment on my own?"

"I think you'll see one cockroach on the kitchen floor and burn down Queens."

"I don't live in Queens, I live in Manhattan. Do you ever pay attention? You think Manhattan is Queens?"

"More East Coast elitism," Richie said, and then he'd offered to go halfsies on a flat in Staten Island, which was still not Manhattan, but that didn't stop Eddie from saying yes, like the smart thing to do during a contested divorce was to move in with a closeted comedian in another borough.

The point being that Eddie had a hundred other, more pressing concerns that he had to methodically address over the course of the year that followed Derry: Back At IT Again! ("Come ON," Richie said in the groupchat. "NOTHING??") Richie had his own shit to sort, too, although he dealt with it in a distinctly Richie way: by walking into the meeting with his agent, the Netflix reps, two producers, and the management team for his postponed tour, announcing "hey, I'm firing my writing team. Also, I'm gay," and losing the Netflix deal through sheer off-putting loudness.

"It's fine," Richie told Eddie later at the apartment, still only half-furnished, the walls pocked with holes from the photos the previous renters had put up. "Fuck old Richie anyway. If I go on Netflix I want it to be with my real shit."

Eddie was sweaty despite his post-PT shower and sore all over. He'd just barely managed to look up over the couch at Richie's dramatic entrance: door flung open, Converse sneakers squeaking on the battered hardwood floor, Richie cursing less out of anger and more out of excess energy.

Eddie put a hand over his face to hide a yawn and said, "You're funnier than those pricks anyway."

Richie said, "You think so, Mr. K?" voice suddenly low. He dropped his backpack on the floor by the plastic card table they were using as a kitchen table. Eddie would have made a snotty remark about how no wonder they didn't take Richie seriously if he was a forty-year old man walking into business meetings with a neon green jansport hanging off one shoulder, only Richie was _looking_ at him. Richie was looking at him and Eddie went still and quiet, like a jungle cat tracking a gazelle picking its way carefully through the brush.

Eddie said, "Yeah. You're probably the funniest person I've ever known. Dick," he added too-late. 

By then Richie had sloped up to the couch and reached out to pat Eddie's scarred cheek. He said, "Aw, Eddie," still in that awful low voice, "you like me. You really like me," and leaned down and kissed Eddie with his lips slightly parted and his stubble scratching at Eddie's mouth and, and the tip of his tongue pressing just briefly against the seam of Eddie's lips. Church tongue, Eddie thought wildly, struck by a left field memory of The Wedding Singer. He'd watched it with Myra, who hadn't liked it. Eddie had liked it; he'd liked it a lot. He thought it was sweet, and as Richie kissed him sugar-slow Eddie realized some wordless, deep down part of Eddie had _liked_ Adam Sandler because with the black curls everywhere he'd looked like someone might have expected a grown-up Richie to look like, if they'd last seen Richie at the age of fifteen.

Richie withdrew. His fingers lingered on Eddie's cheek. In an upsettingly good Southern accent he murmured, "Well, don't that just put the butter on the corn. Mr. K, we do appreciate your laughter here at the Comedy Barn," and Eddie hooked two fingers in Richie's collar and hauled him back down for a little more tongue.

  
  


  
  


That was the first time Richie kissed him. They hadn't talked about it much after the disaster in the hospital room, just kind of naturally dove in together and intertwined the lives they were taking apart and rebuilding. Sometimes Eddie wondered if when Richie said I love you what he'd meant was I love you like you're my annoying little brother. Then he'd look up from his shoulder exercises, the ones he had to do every other day to strengthen his chest and back, and Richie would be looking at Eddie over his glasses. And then, yeah, he kissed Eddie and Eddie had a brief meltdown where he thought about all the reasons why Richie would kiss him other than because Richie loved him: to fuck with him, out of pity, misguided homosexual defiance against Netflix, couch fetish.

And _then_ Richie kissed him again the next day for no discernible reason whatsoever except possibly that he was genuinely grateful for the kale smoothie Eddie shoved into his hands, and suddenly Eddie was kissing more than he'd ever kissed in his whole life. Now that he finally got his teeth in Richie he couldn't stop. His chest healed. Myra signed the paperwork. The scar cream gentled the vividity of the mark on his cheek. Richie started hitting up the comedy circuit in NYC, small shows that played out like guerrilla attacks, dive bomb runs to try out his new hi, I'm Rich Tozier AKA Dick Tozier AKA Chicago Breakdown Tozier and speaking of dick, I _love_ that shit set. Half those shows he had to put on concealer because Eddie had bit him up and down his neck in some kind of blood frenzy on the couch while they were frenching and grabbing at each other.

Eddie was forty-two years old, he had a horrifying scar on his chest and a worse one on his back, all his friends were outrageously famous, he was divorced and telecommuting to work from the apartment on Staten Island, and for the first time in his life he felt like a teenager, reckless and horny and so in love he felt crazy with it; he felt feral with it; he got his hands on Richie and he felt like a shark in the water, like he'd just snorted a drop of blood and now he had to eat or he'd die. But he was forty-two, a year older, responsible and financially cautious, he drank his coffee medium roast without sugar, sweeteners, or syrup, he dutifully performed his physical therapy every day and began re-incorporating the gym; he owed Myra alimony and he felt obligated to help pay the mortgage on the condo they'd shared. He had medical claims to argue with his insurance provider, which had decided to start sneakily denying claims and bills as if Eddie wouldn't notice. He had friends, relationships he had to work to maintain with people he rarely saw in person but whom he loved. He was _still_ trying to untangle his finances from Myra's finances, something he found ridiculous considering he had the master's in International Business and the bachelor's in Finance.

Richie waggled his eyebrows and teased, "Talk Excel to me, baby," and it infuriated Eddie that this made his thighs burn and his dick ache. Richie would come home with a copy of RISK from Wal-Mart and dance his broad shoulders in an exaggerated come hither gesture and say, "Analyze this, Eddie my Eds," and Eddie would shove Richie against the couch and get his hands up Richie's Optimus Prime _STAINLESS STEEL SEX APPEAL_ t-shirt and just start biting his neck.

Forty-two years old and he had all that shit, but he had Richie, too. He had Richie and their apartment and their bills. He had Richie moaning against him, Richie running his mouth even when Eddie had his tongue down Richie's throat, Richie saying stupid, obscene shit like Eddie-sugar, Eddie-honey, I'm gonna make you feel good, Eddie, I'm gonna make you come so hard your legs fall off, hey, Eddie, I want you, I want it, touch me, Eddie, fuck yes bite me, Eddie, I want everyone at Starbucks to know I'm fucking a leopard, I want it so bad, Eddie, I want you to give it to me, I want you to make me scream, Eddie, and I'll make you scream too. I want to suck your dick. I want to swallow your come. Jesus, when you wear those running shorts, Eddie, I want to eat out your asshole and kiss you after it while you're screaming at me. I wanna blow you, Eddie.

And Eddie said, "Yes. Yeah. Yeah. Richie. Okay. Fuck you, Richie." Knotted his hand in Richie's horrible ponytail and pulled sharply as Richie laughed into Eddie's mouth and hitched one of his mile long legs around the back of Eddie.

  
  


  
  


So finally, at the age of forty two and seven months, Eddie got his first blowjob. He'd thought he might hyperventilate, thinking about the leper, thinking about _I'll blow you for a dime. I'll blow you for a nickle._ Sour, hot breath panting across the soft skin at the inside of his knees.

But Richie brushed his teeth first. Spearmint flavor, cool and clean, as he kissed Eddie into the mattress, one big hand holding Eddie's bare thigh, fingers pressing into the flesh and muscle, Pluto clutching Proserpina as he bore her away. Eddie fought like Proserpina must have fought, biting at Richie's lips and digging his fingers into the smooth, hard muscle of Richie's shoulder, take me, take me, steal me away; but you're mine too. He bit his possession into Richie's mint-sharp mouth, nipped his own name _Eddie Kaspbrak_ into the slow, curling, stroking push of Richie's tongue, grabbed at Richie's pudgy middle-aged man waist and yanked. Closer, closer. Hold me tighter. Kiss me harder. Fuck you, Richie, do I have to do everything over here? Put your hands on me. Pinch my thigh. Touch my dick; I'm not doing that for you.

"You're so _bossy_ ," Richie groaned, chest hair itching at Eddie's gut, stubble harsh against the long trail of his chest scar as he kissed at it and nipped at it and then gently lathed it with his tongue as if to apologize: for what? That Eddie had taken the serrated crab knife of IT's blade for Richie? Eddie wasn't sorry. He was glad he'd taken it. Look at me, Richie. Look how strong I am. Are you looking? Do you see?

Richie bit at Eddie's smooth navel, at the slight ridges of his abdominal musculature. He said, "Yeah, I see you. I see you, Eddie," and licked his tongue into Eddie's belly button, dirty, nasty. Eddie moaned and dug his fingers into Richie's messy, flat curls, his cock so hard, his thighs wet with it, _I don't like you playing with that dirty Tozier boy, Eddie_ , but Eddie loved it, he loved how roughly Richie played with him, how Richie would push him into the dirt and drop worms in his hair then laugh when Eddie, furious, shoved him over and slapped at him and called him dickhead, motherfucker, shitbrains, trashmouth. He loved the span of Richie's hands, big when they were kids, bigger now, Richie grabbing his ass and yanking him down the bed so that Richie could rub his nose into the creases of Eddie's thighs, through the thin black pubic hair curling around his hard, red dick. Richie's fingers digging into the line between Eddie's ass cheeks and pulling his cheeks wide while he licked a hot, sticky, wet line up the inside crease of Eddie's left thigh, tracking where he'd run his nose. 

"I love you," Eddie gasped out. He felt like he had when the claw went through him: breath punched out, his chest both expanding and collapsing. In the place of pain, though, there was Richie's fingernails digging into Eddie's skin. Eddie had cleaned those nails a couple nights ago, trimmed the cuticles, fussed over those big hands of Richie's while Richie squirmed and blushed and complained and didn't once try to stand up but instead slouched and leaned forward, two kids in a hammock, Eddie bitching that Richie needed to clean the nail beds every day. 

"I love you. I love you." He was chanting it. "I love you. Richie."

Richie shuddered, a cataclysm between Eddie's thighs. He looked up at Eddie through his glasses, over Eddie's gently twitching cock, Richie's own hair sweatily swept across his forehead and his eyes magnified black and consumptive by the lenses, and Eddie had never wanted anything more than he wanted Richie right now to love him.

Slowly, Richie grinned. "Hey, Eddie," he said, "what d'you wanna watch tonight? Wanna put on the Lakers game? Get some burgers?"

"Choke on my dick, Richie," Eddie snapped at him.

"Why, I never!" Richie crooned in that _effing_ Southern accent. "Mr. Kaspbrak, surely that isn't how you'd talk to a blushing Mississippi magnolia such as myself." 

Sure as shit Eddie had something to say about that, and his balls might have hurt with wanting but he wasn't going to just let Richie get away with it, so he took in a huge breath, enough air to really get going--

Richie closed his hand around Eddie's dick and his mouth around the head, lips mussed out, jaw popped so his teeth were pulled back, tongue hot and the papillae rasping with excruciating precision across the sensitive swollen flesh. Simultaneously, Eddie pulsed pre-come into Richie's mouth and almost kicked him in the head.

"Watch it! That's my face, dumbass!" Richie recoiled, laughing, hand still idly squeezing at Eddie. His face creased. His grin was lopsided; it crowded his face. "You gonna hit me every time I do something nice to you?"

"I wasn't expecting it!"

"I clearly was about to pop your dick in my mouth!" he cackled. "I could not have been more obvious! I was snorting your pubes!"

"Don't say pubes!" Eddie snapped. "You're killing the mood!"

"Oh, am I? Well, let's ask Lil Eds. Hey, Lil Eds," Richie said to Eddie's dick, "is Big Dick Tozier killing the mood?"

"Don't," Eddie said, "don't you give my dick a Voice--"

In a trembling falsetto Richie said, "Oh, no, Richie, I'm feeling juuuuust fine and dandy and all perky!" He popped the P and rolled the R on perky, and Eddie laughed helplessly even as he said, "That's not what my dick sounds like, my dick doesn't sound like that, I'm gonna sue you for slander."

"And you will lose, good sir," said Richie, "because the minute I pull down your pants in that courtroom the judge is going to nod and say yep, that penis _does_ sound like Sandra Dee, lousy with virgini--"

For that, Eddie did kick him, softly on the side of his head. He picked Richie's glasses off with his big toe and the next one down. "Beep beep, loser lover."

"Geez," Richie complained, "you try to give a guy a lousy blowjob!"

"You're still talking," said Eddie, "so I don't see how anybody's getting blown around here."

Richie huffed, "Go complain about it on your blog, man, I'm not your retail bitch," and Eddie laughed again, a laugh that strangled into a gasp when Richie ran his rough-edged tongue in a long and wandering lick up the, _fuck_ , the aching vein on the underside of Eddie's dick. He'd never even thought about that vein before. It was just a vein; it carried blood; it was part of his body and not even, Eddie would have said, an especially important part of his body. Every part of him felt important where Richie touched him. He'd a dawning, borderline hysterical thought that every part of him was important, period, and Richie was just showing him that with his hands and his tongue and his _Jesus fucking cocksucking Christ_ lips, too thin and stretched kind of wide.

"Oh, fffffuck," said Eddie in a high, strangled voice. He sounded like that falsetto Richie had put on, but it wasn't like Richie _noticed_ : he was making grumbling noises in his throat as he took in the top inch of Eddie's dick, sounding like a horny bear or maybe a raccoon with too much testosterone. Richie curved his tongue so that it cupped the heavy swell of Eddie's cock and sucked teasingly at the head. _He likes it_ , Eddie thought, somehow still astonished. He loves it. This felt alarmingly similar to an epiphany: as if he hadn't really understood that Richie loved him until he associated that with his dick in Richie's big, fat mouth.

Eddie said, "Oh, my god," and meant "you really do want me to feel good." His hips stuttered once and Richie choked, a minuscule gagging that he countered by casually shifting his arm so his elbow pinned Eddie to the bed at the waist. Richie leaned his weight into that arm and then opened his mouth like he meant for Eddie to see exactly what it was he was doing with his tongue. Like he meant for Eddie to see how readily he took the clear pre-come that beaded onto his tongue.

Eddie said, "Richie." Eddie said, "Please." Eddie said, "Richie, I _can't_ ," and buried his hands in his own hair and pulled so that fireworks shot off in his scalp and his neck and his chest, glittering pops to match the heat in his groin, the agonized punched-gut tightness low in him, how his balls felt so _tight_ when Richie reached for them and just squeezed them once and lightly, how the scar tissue in his chest pulled and pulled with every ragged breath. He stank with sweat. Richie was groaning around his cock, spit all over Eddie, spit on his thighs, his own pre-ejaculate sticky under Richie's hand pulling and tugging at Eddie's dick. Eddie had never been dirtier than he'd been in the sewers under Maine but Jesus, he felt filthy; he felt _debauched_ ; he felt sweaty and anoxic and _alive_ , orgasmic heat dragging at the intricate and finely tuned pathways of his nervous system, making him stupid with how good it felt to have Richie fucking his dick and rubbing his balls in his hand. 

"Richie," he said, "Richie, it's so good," eyes rolling as he pulled desperately at his hair again, hips fighting against the unyielding barrier of Richie's thick arm, "it's so good. It's _so_ good. Richie," he panted, "it feels so good, is it supposed to feel good, oh god, Richie, _please_!" and Richie pulled off him with an understated pop and said, "Eddie, I want you to come down my throat right now," his voice dick-roughed and his hand slipping away from Eddie's balls down between his own legs. Eddie thought with sudden terror, I want to suck his dick, I want to eat his come, and moaned helpless and half-mad and gave it all up to Richie and his open mouth. 

And that _still_ wasn't enough for Richie; he still wasn't done with Eddie: he licked at Eddie's slit, pulling up each shot of come into his mouth in its turn, not just taking it but _eating_ it, and Eddie's head fell back hard against the pillows and the headboard while he shook apart under Richie, pleasure washing over Eddie like the electrical burst of ball lightning peeling down the shotgun hall of a clapboard house.

He had to come lolling down eventually. He did, every muscle in him an unstrung thing made lazy. Richie was mouthing bites along the insides of Eddie's thighs, hand still down between his legs, his shoulder only slightly shifting. Shifting.

"'d you come?" Eddie mumbled.

Richie chewed idly at his thigh then drew back and inhaled deeply. "Yeah. I came. You're not gonna wanna sleep in this bed."

"Oh."

Richie wriggled up the bed, very stiffly, like he too was a man in his early forties, and only so far that he could rest his head on Eddie's chest. Absently he kissed at Eddie's scar. "Don't know what to tell you. Sex is messy."

"Not that," said Eddie. "I wanted to make you come."

"Eddie, believe me," said Richie dozily, "you did. I came for hours. I came buckets. It's Noah's Ark down there."

"No," Eddie said, "I wanted to make you come. With my mouth."

Richie was still against him for a moment. Then he groaned enormously and rolled away. "What the hell, Kaspbrak. My dick's already dead. Let it rest in peace."

His hair, sweaty, had more of a curl to it. If he cut an inch or so from the mop, then maybe he'd have real curls, proper curls, like he had twenty-eight years ago when they were kids in the summer heat, fighting over a hammock. Eddie stroked his fingertips through Richie's messy, dirtied hair. Richie nuzzled at Eddie's armpit.

"If I lived, so can your dick." Eddie fought a yawn. He lost. Groggily blinking, wondering if he'd ever feel his face again, he caught Richie's eyes. Richie looked punched out, thinking (Eddie knew, with something like that marital telepathy he never did forge with Myra) about Eddie in the sewer, bleeding out in his arms. Then Richie set his jaw and moved forward, lunging at Eddie.

"No!" Eddie yelped, "Don't kiss me!" and threw a hand in front of his own mouth, knuckles to his lips, palm out.

"I wanna kiss you."

"You just _ate my dick_."

"Holy shit," said Richie, "that is not what happened there. What the fuck, I thought you'd be a cuddler."

"You are not kissing me with my dick germs in your mouth!"

"I'm gonna kiss your whole body with my dick germ mouth," said Richie, "I'm gonna get your dick germs all over your stupid jacked bod, bro," but what he did was he kissed the heel of Eddie's palm, held protectively between them. Then he brushed his lips up the mounts, tracing the arc of the life line with his kiss. Eddie shivered from the sweetness, how Richie's lips dragged across his skin.

"I need to take a shower," Eddie said. 

"Yeah?" said Richie. He pressed his lips, rounded, to the tip of Eddie's first finger. "Me, too."

"Not-- Not together."

"C'mon, Eds," said Richie. He looked through his stubby lashes at Eddie. "Don't you trust me?"

The hell of it was, he did.

  
  


  
  


They were in bed together, Eddie putting together a potential job from a couple e-mails, a few contacts, and Richie running his mouth about the shitty comedy scene on the Alaskan cruise lines, when Eddie ruined everything.

"Didn't you do that show on Norwegian in, what, 2006? You did that set about what Fozzie would sound like during sex." 

Eddie attached his resume and hit send. Glancing at Richie, who had gone suspiciously silent, he performed a double take then froze.

"How do you know about that?" asked Richie.

"Uh," said Eddie.

"That show only ever got posted on--" Richie sat bolt upright. "Oh, my god."

"No," said Eddie.

The smile spreading across Richie's face would have made the Grinch shit himself.

"Oh, my god, Eddie, you creepy little psycho."

"No!" said Eddie.

"You Facebook stalked _me_!" Richie shouted gleefully. "You little shit! Did you save the photos of me shirtless in Aruba? Tell me right now, Eddie my _love_ , Eddie my _dear-heart_ , Eddie my _pocket-sized Mr. Darcy_."

Eddie hissed, "You were never shirtless in Aruba!" and hit him with a pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) [Sugar Sugar by the Archies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JywK_5bT8z0).
> 
> 2) OUT OF CHARACTER; WHERE'S THE CONDOM? NO STARS, UNSAFE, THIS IS IRRESPONSIBLE WRITING!! --Eddie Kaspbrak
> 
> 3) The STAINLESS STEEL SEX APPEAL shirt exists and I own it and I love it and Optimus Prime is, dare I say it, #Daddy.
> 
> 4) As a lesbian I am not into Bill Hader in the slightest but may I say with utmost sincerity from me to Eddie: Good for you.
> 
> Sorry you read this. I swear to God I'm writing a longer, serious fic. I just wanted to write the blowjob scene and it took a couple thousand words of actively avoiding plot to get to it. You will never regain these minutes of your life. _They're mine now._


End file.
